In which I drink a lot and pass out like a Lady.

It's been a Bank Holiday weekend. It was a sunny and glorious weekend, with lots of sun and glory all round. And, for once, it actually felt like a weekend, it was long and nice and I saw lots of people.

On Friday I went out.

(I am just going to write about the people I saw as if you know them, because I can't be bothered to write little explanations about who they are and how I know them. Mainly it's from my prostitution and selling children for hard labour days, but not exclusively.)

I went to the South Bank, where I met my mate Luke, who had, in an impressive display of commitment to the cause, been drinking all afternoon. Some of his friends were there, many of whom were also dedicated to the Friday of the Bank Holiday Weekend Which Officially Signifies The End Of Summer rules, which means getting really drunk on wine, preferably over-priced Rosé.
I got involved.
Oh, did I get involved.
Some Things had happened during Friday daytime, which I needed to drown in alcohol (oh don't be like that, you know it's the sensible option). So, there was Luke and Luke's friends, and then Max and Dan came to join us. There was more drinking.
Then there was a now-very-hazy tube journey and then a club in Soho. With more wine. I remember two things very clearly. The first was having a look at the other drinks on the table to see whether any of the other glasses were fuller than mine and therefore more worth drinking from. The second was standing in the (mixed) toilets, trying to get the woman who was handing out paper towels and horrible perfumes to give me advice about my hair. I have a swimmy recollection of the sheer Not-Caringness of her being overwhelming.
Anyway. We danced a bit, drank some more, then Luke was sick on the floor of the club and we all went home.

Saturday morning I woke up on a sofa.
I was NOT feeling well.
It was NOT my sofa.
It was ok, though, it was Dan's sofa, and he is my friend, so it is ok that I sleep on his sofa.
There's a very specific way that you feel when you wake up, on a sofa that isn't your own, fully clothed, horribly hungover and all hot and sunned upon. The feeling of the the over-priced Rosé oozing from your pores and the mascara inching it way across your face in a desperate bid to win you Camden's Saturday Morning Person Who Looks Most Like A Panda In A Really Unattractive Way competition.
It's not a great way to feel.
Then to add insult to self-induced-but-still-very-real injury Dan came into the room fully dressed and perky and ready to go to work (yes, it was Saturday, but Dan does funny hours). He took one glance at my pain and knew EXACTLY how to make it worse.
By switching on... wait for it... the TV!
No, that's not it. It was the fact that on the TV was..
Some kind of sporting event!
The CRICKET no less!

I got revenge by asking him really annoying questions until he threw me out of his flat ("Why do they have to wear white?" "What's he saying and why?" "Do they actually ENJOY doing that? They can't. Why? What's the POINT?").

I went home to my parents' house, had a shower, got changed. Took some painkillers, drank some coffee.

Went back to Soho.

Listened to the Foo Fighters on the way there on my Ipod. Felt better. I always feel better in the company of Dave Grohl.

Saw a matinée of a play at the Soho theatre which was starring my friend Mike. It was great, the whole thing was fast-paced, energetic and funny, whilst simultaneously being sad and tragic (well, it was a version of Antigone so that makes sense). I won't write a review because I won't do it justice. But Mike was Great.

Afterwards Luke, Max, Hannah, Mike and I went to a café in Soho for a bite to eat. It will shock and fascinate you to know that I had Sweet Pepper and Chorzio wrap. Because I'm a bit fancy.
Mike had to go and do the evening performance, but the four of us sat there for a while and caught up. The was, I'll admit, a fair amount of doing of impressions of Luke vomiting in public and then reprimanding Max VERY sternly for not getting him to the toilet on time.

Gemma came to meet us then. She looked all tanned and swanky, which we talked about until she informed us that someone in the G.A.Y club in Soho had told her VERY emphatically how VERY much she looked like Paris Hilton.
She does not. It's like the time I got told I reminded someone of Abi Titmuss. If you don't know who that is, let me tell you, it's not so flattering a comparison.

Luke, Max and Hannah went to see another play, and Gems and I went for cocktails. Mmm, mojitos.

And then more wine. And a spot more wine. And maybe one last glass. By which time Max, Luke and Hannah had come to join us. Luke and Max bailed early because they were tired (no DEDICATION, people).

Gemma took her bra off because it was annoying her, and Hannah got bored of her shirt, so took it off and wrapped her pashmina around her instead. I had enough cleavage, so didn't need to take anything off.

Yes, we were quite drunk by then.

Sunday's hangover was fun.

As was Monday's.

Oh dear.

Sunday I hung out with Pippa. We hung out and I nursed my hangover, and then I suggested going home for a bit, having a bit of a chill out. Maybe watch some TV, eat some cheese, that sort of thing. A shower, a change. A bit of Charmed to dull the pain.

Then the pub.

Monday morning I felt as if someone had taken off my head and replaced it with a big football, and then buried me in the ground, with nothing showing except my head, just in front of an open goal during a football match in which one of the teams happens to be called the Iron-Shod Really Hard Kick-y Peoples' team.

So, not good. Don't question the analogies.

Mid-afternoon I made my way to my friend Andrew's house for a barbeque. Where there was beer. I know there was beer because I bought some and took it there. And possibly drank it.
Ahem.
Not that much, though, I promise. WHAT? I said I promise, didn't I?
Anyway, it was a lovely afternoon. Sunny and warm. Andrew cooked lovely food, and there were people there I hadn't seen for ages. We had fun, and Pippa gave me a lift home at about ten.

The train this morning was sheer JOY as Pippa and I sat opposite each other, me sucking the caffine-y goodness out of a large coffee, and Pippa staring into the void that constitutes another working week. But she works in fashion PR and gets free jewellery, which means I get free jewellery, so she has to go to work.

So here I am. It's Tuesday, and the Bank Holiday weekend is over. I think I drank it.

I have a gig on Friday, though, so I'm looking forward to that. I need to learn some specific songs they've requested, though (including 'Street Life' - because it's a hookers' party). So I'll just be off and do that.

I'll just finish this bottle of wine first, though. The weekend lives on in spirit.

Or, you know, wine.